Chapter 3
At the edge of the barbecue tables, the world seemed to stop spinning. Dante Romano had been in the middle of a strategic conversation with two senior Mafia associates, a glass of water resting loosely in his tattooed hand. The moment Leo’s terrified scream pierced the air, the glass shattered. Dante’s grip had tightened with such sudden, crushing force that the thick crystal simply exploded, sending water and jagged shards raining onto the bright green grass.
Dante did not flinch. He did not look at his bleeding palm. The charming, romantic aesthetic of his perfectly styled hair and tailored suit instantly gave way to the terrifying, cold-blooded executioner lurking just beneath his skin.
"Dante—" one of the associates began, his rosy face paling with alarm.
Dante did not wait for the sentence to finish. He moved.
He did not run; running was for men who panicked. Dante stalked across the courtyard with blinding, explosive speed, a terrifying display of raw, deeply masculine power. The crowd of guests parted instantly, practically throwing themselves out of his path to avoid the apocalyptic rage radiating from his dark three-piece suit.
"Get out of the way!" a professional bodyguard barked, shoving a guest aside to clear a direct line for the Boss.
Javier was still pinning Leo to the ground, panting heavily, a sick smile of satisfaction on his flushed face. He didn't even see the storm approaching until it was already upon him.
Dante reached his cousin in a fraction of a second. He did not issue a verbal warning. He reached down with his massive, tattooed hands, his fingers curling like steel vice grips around the fabric of Javier’s fitted polo shirt and the meat of his shoulder.
With a sudden, devastating exertion of pure physical strength, Dante violently pulled the forty-one-year-old man completely off his son.
Javier let out a sharp yelp of surprise as he was hauled backward through the air, his feet entirely leaving the ground. Dante tossed him aside like a discarded rag. Javier stumbled awkwardly, his casual shoes slipping on the grass, barely managing to stay upright as he crashed against a nearby decorative stone bench.
Dante immediately stepped between his cousin and the children. His chest heaved with slow, highly controlled breaths. The sharply defined jawline beneath his short, well-trimmed beard was clenched so tightly that the muscles twitched visibly.
"Take... your hands," Dante whispered. His voice was incredibly deep, raspy, and vibrating with a lethal, controlled rage. He spaced the words deliberately, keeping his volume so low it forced the entire silent courtyard to strain to hear him. "Off... my children."
"He was being disrespectful, Dante!" Javier stammered, attempting to recover his bravado, though his American accent cracked slightly under the terrifying weight of Dante’s cold, sharp eyes. "He needs to learn that he can't just—"
"You... do not speak," Dante interrupted, the low rumble of his voice slicing through Javier’s pathetic excuse like a razor blade.
Dante didn't take his eyes off Javier as he reached a hand backward. "Leo. Stand up. Are you hurt?"
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"I'm okay, Dad," Leo whimpered, scrambling quickly to his feet, rubbing his sore back.
Mia, recovering from her fall, ran as fast as she could. She threw her arms around Dante’s legs, hiding her tear-streaked face behind the protective wall of her father’s tailored trousers. The two children stood safely behind the towering, intimidating figure of the Mafia Boss, staring in awe and fear at the violent tension exploding in the bright summer light.
